


Statement of Rebecca Lukas

by thebogqueen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Depression, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 09:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20618537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebogqueen/pseuds/thebogqueen
Summary: Jon gets a visit from a surprisingly willing statement giver.





	Statement of Rebecca Lukas

**Author's Note:**

> After making a passing remark that I'd be an avatar of the Lonely, I thought - y'know. I could write that. So I did.

For most people, staring into space at work was something to do surreptitiously, as to not be chided by one's boss for slacking off. For Jonathan Simms, the Archivist, it was work, of a sort. His eyes were focused on the bookshelf across the room, but his mind - his mind was focused on lapping up the small, inconsequential leaks of Knowing seeping in around the edges of the door there, the door that kept the ocean of Knowledge at bay. Besides, it wasn't like Peter Lukas was likely to come down into the archives and scold Jon. He hadn't actually bothered to do much as introduce himself when Jon has returned to the archives after his coma. Idly, the Archivist wondered what it would take for an avatar of the Lonely to come down and reprimand him, but quickly put a mental hand to the door in his mind before it could creak open. He really didn't want to know. The fact remained that no one was likely to intrude upon him, with Daisy and Basira doing research in the library, Melanie studiously refusing to do anything at all, and Martin - Martin - Jon sighed and let his head fall into how hands, rubbing his fingers over his face under his glasses in exhaustion and surrender.

Just then, a loud, confident knocking came from his office door, startling him upright in his chair. It wasn't Martin, he knew it wasn't going to be Martin, on the other side of that barrier of wood and glass, but that didn't stop his heart from jerking in his chest. Trying to get his pulse down to a reasonable, low panic, Jon thought quickly about who it could be. Anyone he thought likely to need him would be equally unlikely to knock... Well. There was one way to find out, then, wasn't there? "Come in," he called out, trying to sound confident bordering on bored, trying to sound like his old self, when he’d first been promoted to head archivist and wasn’t afraid of the things that might be coming for him. The door swung easily inward, revealing a short, cheerful looking woman, with short, cheerful looking brown hair and large metal framed glasses. One hand held a tartan thermos, and the other waved in an energetic hallo. “Can I...help you?” Jon asked, slowly but politely, attempting to keep his voice even and devoid of both confusion and curiosity.

Smiling politely, the woman came in, letting the door swing closed behind her, and walked the short distance across Jon’s office to plop herself down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk with all the leisurely confidence Jon could ever hope to have. “You’re the Archivist, yes?” she asked, in the crisp, bland accent characteristic of the American East coast. “I’m here to give a statement.”

Jon couldn’t stop the surprise that bloomed across his face. The Institute hadn’t been taking new statements for months, not since Elias’ removal and replacement with Peter Lukas, and Jon had been trying so hard not to take any...unofficial statements, since his colleagues had found out about them. The girl’s expression turned sly and knowing beneath the cheer, as she unscrewed the cap to the thermos and poured something hot, steaming, and smelling delicious into it. “Uncle Peter thought you might be...hungry,” she said, gently pushing the cup across the desk towards Jon. His stomach growled, but he made no move to take it.

“Your uncle Peter. You mean Peter Lukas,” he said, eyes narrowing. It wasn’t a question.

Her smile deepened. She leaned back, relaxing into the chair, the politely cheerful facade fading to a lingering crinkle around her eyes. She said nothing, only waited. Jon sighed, but she was right. He was hungry, and she was, apparently, volunteering. The Archivist turned to pull open a drawer of his desk, only to see that a tape recorder had already appeared there on the left side by his mug full of pens. He stared at it, nonplussed, for a moment before hitting the record button. “Statement of…” he shot a glance at the woman across the desk, who filled in helpfully, “Rebecca Lukas.” “Right. Statement of Rebecca Lukas, taken direct from subject, sixth September, two thousand nineteen. Statement begins.”

“I’m sure that you know a little bit about our family, being the Archivist. We must have a few stories in here, and you’re working for Uncle Peter. It probably won’t surprise you that most of us get homeschooled, but that wasn’t the case for me. A convenient trick of biology kept it from being necessary - even as a child I could be in a room full of people and feel like I was completely alone. Even with friends, even when I thought I should be happy, it was like I couldn’t quite get there, to the reality everyone else seemed to be occupying. Every little thing that I was left out of stung like a betrayal. I was a melodramatic child, because I was always overwhelmed with that sadness that seemed like a wall between me and everyone else. 

It took years, decades, before I figured out that it wasn’t just some weird Lukas family quirk. Turns out depression’s one hell of a drug, and even better at isolating you than creepy family traditions. Of course, it ended up tying me almost as closely to Terminus as the Lonely. When things got...too bad...near the end of college, I actually started going to therapy. Got some antidepressants. Got a little bit more stable. I could get through days that didn’t hurt anymore, and without that constant, searing ache I started to feel…,” she trailed off. 

“Less alone?” Jon supplied, his voice surprisingly soft. 

Ms Lukas smiled sadly, “Something like that. But that wasn’t acceptable, was it? Not for a Lukas. Even together we stand Alone,” her voice wasn’t cheerful now, but sad, with an undertone of bitterness - just the barest hint, like something moving underneath the surface of the sea, but Jon heard it. “There’s a difference, you know, between solitude and loneliness. One feeds you and the other feeds off of you.”

“We used to go camping, when I was a kid, when I was still struggling, hung between the End, the Lonely, and my own broken mental chemistry. We’d go out into the woods, miles away from any other people, and I would just be able to feel...alone. But in a good way, a way that didn’t make me feel broken. When I graduated from college, my dad suggested we take a camping trip, to celebrate. Be like old times. I should have seen it coming, really. I was born a Lukas, born to be an avatar of the Lonely, and I should have seen it coming. But I didn’t.”

Jon waited a heartbeat for her to continue and found himself bringing the still steaming mug to his lips. He didn’t remember wrapping his long fingers around the cup, or hearing the clink of his ring against the metal, but he must have done. The liquid was salty, savory, and rich, the sort of bone broth someone might make for a loved one who’d been ill, or to dunk bread in on a cold, bitter winter night. 

“We parked at the trailhead, carried our tent and our gear into the woods, made camp. Did the things you do when you go camping with your family - actually, I don’t know if you do them if you’re British? We cooked hamburgers and baked beans over the fire, made s’mores, played stupid card games. It was...Christ, it was nice. And then afterwards, after the stars had come out, we curled up in our sleeping bags and listened to the crickets and frogs until we fell asleep.”

“The sun woke me up the next morning. It was hot and stuffy in the tent and I knew I’d overslept. I got up to go to the bathroom and see if Dad had made any coffee but...there was no one there. No other tents. No camp chairs, no cooler, no...no anything to show that I wasn’t the only person in that forest. I can’t tell you how long I was there for. I majored in conservation biology with a specialization in botany and a minor in environmental geography in college, so I knew something about staying alive in the woods. Mostly what berries you can eat without making yourself sick and that you can get water from cutting wild grape vines but that was about it,” her voice grew quieter as she continued and the situation she recounted grew more dire, “I can’t tell you how long I was there. It was...it had to have been years. It snowed. More than once. That first week or so I walked, and walked, and walked, every day but I would always end up back at my tent. I’d scream and cry and call out but the only thing that ever answered me were the birds. It didn’t take long to realise that I was alone. Really, truly alone, in those woods. I don’t know what threshold of abject loneliness they were waiting for but...Well. One day I woke up, and there were my folks. Like they’d never left. Like I hadn’t just spent ages alone in a forest crying for them to find me.”

Rebecca had wrapped her arms around herself as she spoke this last, and then shook herself and sat up straight in her chair. She poured another serving of bone broth into the cup sat in front of Jon and sighed as she set the thermos down. “That’s what they’re doing, you know. To your friend. Martin, I think Uncle Peter said his name was? He’s in the woods alone, trying not to call out for anyone, but he’s still looking through the trees. Hoping someone comes for him before he freezes to death out there alone.” She said this last with a meaningful look at Jon, who could only think in the moment that Peter Lukas would very likely not approve of this bit of information.

Jon took a moment to take another deep sip of broth and pull himself together. He had to admit he felt better now than he had in days, in weeks. The thought was not reassuring, as he was sure it wasn’t simply a warm cup of soup that was responsible. Still, it had been voluntary, at least on his part, and it had given him something to think about - not that he didn’t think about Martin frequently. Almost constantly. “Thank you. For this,” he waved a hand, encompassing the statement, her commentary about Martin, the soup, all of it.

She smiled, suddenly once again the cheerful, unfazed young woman who’d walked in the door rather than the woman hurt and abandoned standing alone in the forest. “You’re welcome, Jon,” - was he imagining it, or was there a subtle emphasis on his name? - “I hope that helps.” She gently picked the cup up from between his unresisting hands and screwed it back on top of the thermos, before offering her hand to shake. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” and then, in a hiss of static and the sound of the wind rustling through leaves, she was gone.  
Jon stared a moment at the empty space, blinking in surprise. “Statement ends,” he said, quietly, before standing up and hitting the stop button on the tape recorder and taking a deep, steadying breath.


End file.
